"maggoty" poems - Hello Poetry

/ beelzebub *(given employs the spider a posteriori and spiderweb a priori, and then back into a bicemeral reverse psyche-analogy - the id est contra the id erat - but there is no latin revival - given that the latin encoding has been translated into a.i. algorithms... forget putting the pandora into a box into a box into a box, into an etc. or what is a russian cultural artefact... forget it... a black fly would not take upon itself to make a dustbin, a ******* maggoty brothel, like a green bottle fly might... black flies have character, style... they're the ones that take to tango, with spider architecture, akin to the theological spider analogy about an ad infinitum a priori argument)*: a bit like watching a black fly - "washing" itself - rubbing it's front limbs together, "attempting" to start a fire... god, those awful green bottle hypers - with maggot excesses - in a potential well expressed into practice - black flies? i can entertain them - like i might entertain spiders that do not require aquariums - the non-exotica types... so i sometimes find myself rubbing my hands together, like a catholic amounting to an altruistic prayer symbolism... so kommen faust, so kommen faust, so ist pseudo-faust - or rather: england? deutschland jr. america? deutschland sr. and if that wasn't the case? oh me, little old slavic babuшka... i still can't explain rubbing my hands together, like a black fly might... keeping standards of where to take a maggoty dump's worth of procreation value... black flies? compared to the others? the priests of the whole spectrum... i sometimes wish they were red, so i could call them: the cardinals... alas... not to be, god said otherwise... but i can fathom the priesthood, like i can fathom - an aspiration of a sleeping samurai, devoid of the zodiac delusion, encouraged to make chiromancy initiatives (readings) to alleviate, ******** monotheism.

0

Jul 24, 2018

Jul 24, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

beelzebub (with revision)

/ beelzebub *(given employs the spider a posteriori and spiderweb a priori, and then back into a bicemeral reverse psyche-analogy - the id est contra the id erat - but there is no latin revival - given that the latin encoding has been translated into a.i. algorithms... forget putting the pandora into a box into a box into a box, into an etc. or what is a russian cultural artefact... forget it... a black fly would not take upon itself to make a dustbin, a ******* maggoty brothel, like a green bottle fly might... black flies have character, style... they're the ones that take to tango, with spider architecture, akin to the theological spider analogy about an ad infinitum a priori argument)*: a bit like watching a black fly - "washing" itself - rubbing it's front limbs together, "attempting" to start a fire... god, those awful green bottle hypers - with maggot excesses - in a potential well expressed into practice - black flies? i can entertain them - like i might entertain spiders that do not require aquariums - the non-exotica types... so i sometimes find myself rubbing my hands together, like a catholic amounting to an altruistic prayer symbolism... so kommen faust, so kommen faust, so ist pseudo-faust - or rather: england? deutschland jr. america? deutschland sr. and if that wasn't the case? oh me, little old slavic babuшka... i still can't explain rubbing my hands together, like a black fly might... keeping standards of where to take a maggoty dump's worth of procreation value... black flies? compared to the others? the priests of the whole spectrum... i sometimes wish they were red, so i could call them: the cardinals... alas... not to be, god said otherwise... but i can fathom the priesthood, like i can fathom - an aspiration of a sleeping samurai, devoid of the zodiac delusion, encouraged to make chiromancy initiatives (readings) to alleviate, ******** monotheism.

75

What in the world is wrong with me? Writing poems about gross stuff I see. Like ***** matter and old underwear Is there something odd up there? Poems all about maggoty dog poo, Popping pimples and what else did I do? I wrote a poem about a piece of **** And a guy blowing boogars in his soup One about a pickled pig in a jar Do I think this will make me a star? About a guy who was stuck on a bus Who had an accident and there was a fuss I also wrote one about my pet cat With tinsel in her **** What's up with that? I also have a poem about picking everything from teeth to **** and finger licking I wrote about an autopsy that happens when your dead Is there a short circuit inside of my head? You know I had to write about farting gas And what happens when something else you pass. And about a guy killing a bunch of birds Just because one, in his eye, dropped a terd About inflamed hemroids and rotten, spoiled meat And a terd eating dog. That's not neat! One about a boy not bathing for a month I wonder if that wasn't my millionth. I even have one about digging up old poo And one about changing diapers. Oh eww! I'm sure that soon there will be more to come With the way my brain works and where I'm from So 'til then I think I'll end this tirade And hope you'll read the next mess made.

0

Oct 3, 2012

Oct 3, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC

mike-west

What Is Wrong With Me?

What in the world is wrong with me? Writing poems about gross stuff I see. Like ***** matter and old underwear Is there something odd up there? Poems all about maggoty dog poo, Popping pimples and what else did I do? I wrote a poem about a piece of **** And a guy blowing boogars in his soup One about a pickled pig in a jar Do I think this will make me a star? About a guy who was stuck on a bus Who had an accident and there was a fuss I also wrote one about my pet cat With tinsel in her **** What's up with that? I also have a poem about picking everything from teeth to **** and finger licking I wrote about an autopsy that happens when your dead Is there a short circuit inside of my head? You know I had to write about farting gas And what happens when something else you pass. And about a guy killing a bunch of birds Just because one, in his eye, dropped a terd About inflamed hemroids and rotten, spoiled meat And a terd eating dog. That's not neat! One about a boy not bathing for a month I wonder if that wasn't my millionth. I even have one about digging up old poo And one about changing diapers. Oh eww! I'm sure that soon there will be more to come With the way my brain works and where I'm from So 'til then I think I'll end this tirade And hope you'll read the next mess made.

32

I knew I was in the burning building with her – and it was like Limburg, maggoty but obliged its fortress of a rowboat life. Without its ice, I am in pine-high, to dull selves which will later stiff upon these floors. He was hell. He did this to us. Not even a masked ****** shown needles for his dog expression, and I am prodded rather with teeth than a nose drill. But she did dissolve before I could have, must have had thin bones, of maturity, an osteoporosis ache. It saved her, perhaps, although she passed: a kidney stone philosophy book, these death-doctors will read numb. I do wonder if it were their hips in fire, why could they not sit in a mausoleum place. Just how we did so many instances – practicing a routine in the bathtub, like knowing. Had the correct arrangement, too, I pretended I was in a womb with you. And mother’s was like that claw-tub so we, fetus, sensed like castle buffs, carrying the rings of gold and lockets of princess blood. Then, she became papier-mâché statues before a meadow of hell’s dust: I had to kiss each curve because one ash was not enough. I knew I was in the burning building with her when I could not recognize her stumps. She was an emblem of past upon fair carpet, or the haze I inhale to shadow – knowing that he sees our wallpaths and catches the hum of infernos taking bodies, then say that he is a monster even more than I.

0

Oct 28, 2012

Oct 28, 2012 at 5:30 PM UTC

sarina

sexton

I knew I was in the burning building with her – and it was like Limburg, maggoty but obliged its fortress of a rowboat life. Without its ice, I am in pine-high, to dull selves which will later stiff upon these floors. He was hell. He did this to us. Not even a masked ****** shown needles for his dog expression, and I am prodded rather with teeth than a nose drill. But she did dissolve before I could have, must have had thin bones, of maturity, an osteoporosis ache. It saved her, perhaps, although she passed: a kidney stone philosophy book, these death-doctors will read numb. I do wonder if it were their hips in fire, why could they not sit in a mausoleum place. Just how we did so many instances – practicing a routine in the bathtub, like knowing. Had the correct arrangement, too, I pretended I was in a womb with you. And mother’s was like that claw-tub so we, fetus, sensed like castle buffs, carrying the rings of gold and lockets of princess blood. Then, she became papier-mâché statues before a meadow of hell’s dust: I had to kiss each curve because one ash was not enough. I knew I was in the burning building with her when I could not recognize her stumps. She was an emblem of past upon fair carpet, or the haze I inhale to shadow – knowing that he sees our wallpaths and catches the hum of infernos taking bodies, then say that he is a monster even more than I.

34

Tearing through me uncontrollable pain ripping and tearing shredding my very soul tears of blood as red as the rose petals scattered around trace through the whiten skin blue eyes bloodshot and wide staring into the neverending darkness the demons of hell leaching all that is good leaving the ugly stain of pain and anger death the final end nevercoming a living hell consuming all that is good blacker and blacker the stain spreads leaving a soul as mouldy and maggoty as a corpse Unstoppable Neverending.

0

Oct 9, 2010

Oct 9, 2010 at 7:04 AM UTC

lizzie-johansson-hartley

Untitled

Tearing through me uncontrollable pain ripping and tearing shredding my very soul tears of blood as red as the rose petals scattered around trace through the whiten skin blue eyes bloodshot and wide staring into the neverending darkness the demons of hell leaching all that is good leaving the ugly stain of pain and anger death the final end nevercoming a living hell consuming all that is good blacker and blacker the stain spreads leaving a soul as mouldy and maggoty as a corpse Unstoppable Neverending.

22

from the tip of distal phalanx to the in-between phalanx media / distalis, i measured the orb, as the cursor denoting L. i wrote this poem, with the fake... should the sun come closer to to earth as if the moon and earth entwined... the distance would be this third orb... now seen apparent in the sky... a rarity kinship of omen that expanded further more than i claimed... in the foggy smog contrast it expanded so much more... what a strange telescope i’m seeing through... it usurps japanese aesthetics... it says: simplicities first, complications later.. not like the french existentialism of: complications first, simplicities later... governed by what came from the linear coupling of existence and essence... mediating the kantian assertion, a priori and a posteori are mediated with: a priori ipse a posteriori - as kindred of the cherry blossom, the hawk and the maggoty optics burrowed into.

0

Nov 28, 2015

Nov 28, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

phalanx media / distalis tertia sphera

from the tip of distal phalanx to the in-between phalanx media / distalis, i measured the orb, as the cursor denoting L. i wrote this poem, with the fake... should the sun come closer to to earth as if the moon and earth entwined... the distance would be this third orb... now seen apparent in the sky... a rarity kinship of omen that expanded further more than i claimed... in the foggy smog contrast it expanded so much more... what a strange telescope i’m seeing through... it usurps japanese aesthetics... it says: simplicities first, complications later.. not like the french existentialism of: complications first, simplicities later... governed by what came from the linear coupling of existence and essence... mediating the kantian assertion, a priori and a posteori are mediated with: a priori ipse a posteriori - as kindred of the cherry blossom, the hawk and the maggoty optics burrowed into.

23

You spat in my face, stab me repeatedly, degraded me, shunned me, kept my head below sea level, pounded my head in with a hammer and screws, drove 200 miles per hour to strike me with your car unforeseen, you slapped me, punched me, kicked me, shot me, you drugged me, you betrayed me, but silent tears roam down the mysterious lake, into a maggoty infested sewer undiscovered.

0

Aug 27, 2018

Aug 27, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC

julian-d

Emotionless Pain

You spat in my face, stab me repeatedly, degraded me, shunned me, kept my head below sea level, pounded my head in with a hammer and screws, drove 200 miles per hour to strike me with your car unforeseen, you slapped me, punched me, kicked me, shot me, you drugged me, you betrayed me, but silent tears roam down the mysterious lake, into a maggoty infested sewer undiscovered.

9

we knew capitalism had turned ugly after the first lemonade stand drive by children denounced their parents when their eyes were opened to supply side economics and demand side criminal enterprise plunging on in a premeditated stupor they floated between the tables a jackpot here a jackhammer there a cartesian Bingo bonanza elsewhere going on but the scantiest of gossip it's a fill in the blank world where a suitcase full of dead mockingbirds found on the late bus idling at the terminal against the smell of ***** nightmares constituted a reunion of the ever faithful filling the night with interrogation we had some exceptional men in our unit dropped into trouble spots too hot to touch setting up sensors and detectors and bait scholars statesmen jurists bishops and a bent maggoty reeking poet a sleight of hand magnum opus abuser surrounded by the burning bodies of everyone he ever knew yet all is not a ham bone up the *** I had just cleaned up my syntax and grammar with maple syrup and golden dairy butter so I'll put off proofing this mess for another day too old to dig up reliable proof anyhow my brain's already in a specimen jar it lived a mythical fairy tale life worth a transfer to the end of the line to the ancient carnival of phantoms so I sent in my manicurist security guard from the tropical hammock islands their scissors going snip snip snip rattling the bones of the dead if this is just a make believe universe I'd hate to see the real one but I'm pretty sure space is continuous and spewing rhyme out of the hearts of stars but what the hell do I know it all sounds so fresh and dewy assuring me that people of greater densities the beautific the anointed the the sanctified **** up real stupid just like we do forgive me but my thoughts have all been stolen the end point is eluding me as a point as an area we'll eventually get there From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

0

Jul 14, 2023

Jul 14, 2023 at 6:01 PM UTC

walteralter

Newborn Boy Tossed Out Car Window

we knew capitalism had turned ugly after the first lemonade stand drive by children denounced their parents when their eyes were opened to supply side economics and demand side criminal enterprise plunging on in a premeditated stupor they floated between the tables a jackpot here a jackhammer there a cartesian Bingo bonanza elsewhere going on but the scantiest of gossip it's a fill in the blank world where a suitcase full of dead mockingbirds found on the late bus idling at the terminal against the smell of ***** nightmares constituted a reunion of the ever faithful filling the night with interrogation we had some exceptional men in our unit dropped into trouble spots too hot to touch setting up sensors and detectors and bait scholars statesmen jurists bishops and a bent maggoty reeking poet a sleight of hand magnum opus abuser surrounded by the burning bodies of everyone he ever knew yet all is not a ham bone up the *** I had just cleaned up my syntax and grammar with maple syrup and golden dairy butter so I'll put off proofing this mess for another day too old to dig up reliable proof anyhow my brain's already in a specimen jar it lived a mythical fairy tale life worth a transfer to the end of the line to the ancient carnival of phantoms so I sent in my manicurist security guard from the tropical hammock islands their scissors going snip snip snip rattling the bones of the dead if this is just a make believe universe I'd hate to see the real one but I'm pretty sure space is continuous and spewing rhyme out of the hearts of stars but what the hell do I know it all sounds so fresh and dewy assuring me that people of greater densities the beautific the anointed the the sanctified **** up real stupid just like we do forgive me but my thoughts have all been stolen the end point is eluding me as a point as an area we'll eventually get there From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

51